We don’t use the official word. Too much weight to the word. Too much responsibility with the word. There is a history with the word. History in torn textbooks with black and white photos. Words and pictures that do not tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
We use alternative words:
Military action.
Pre-emptive strike.
Excursion.
Demolish military sites, not the elementary school where dead children are counted. Picked out beneath concrete, rebar, and black smoke by mothers, fathers, survivors. One standing wall a mural with a bronze-haired boy kneeling amidst butterflies and cup-shaped flowers. They are not-our-mistake children. But I cannot help asking, “Was it a mistake?” Do they care which dead are counted when they are protecting our country from a possible war?
You’ll notice I used the word.
In this instance, we can use the word. It was pre-emptive, so we did not officially start it. It is not our history. Not our children.
I once was a child. Skinny with knobby knees. I climbed trees and played with boys and girls in my neighborhood. We had water balloon fights and played tag. “You’re it!” Then we would run until the sun finished the day. I would take a Mr. Bubble bubble bath and pray the Lord my soul to keep before I slipped into bed. I would pray for Gramma and Grandpa and a good next day at school. An elementary school just blocks from my house. A school where I hadn’t even learned the word.